


No Race to Be Run

by AdmiralOptimus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x20 fix it, Also kind of, Angst, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Compliant, Dean and Castiel are in love, F/M, Heaven, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, I've decided that as a society we need to accept that Castiel is just. a force., John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts, alternative look at heaven, carry on fix it, honestly just me projecting onto dean, it gets better I promise!, kind of?, not beta read we die like dean, not very much though, that was too soon I am aware and I am sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdmiralOptimus/pseuds/AdmiralOptimus
Summary: Heaven was, well. Heaven was like a postcard.That was the allegory Dean had settled on- a postcard. It was beautiful, picturesque American views around every bend, each road promising to take him to the great-wide-somewhere. It all felt a little artificial, too. Very posed. Sometimes, Dean couldn't shake the feeling that something was always, just slightly, off.Everywhere felt subtly familiar, like an old jacket not worn in years that still fits just right in the shoulders. And like a postcard, Dean couldn't go anywhere without some part of him missing what wasn't there.So, he couldn't help thinking- Wish you were here.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	1. Come on, Eileen

Dean had never planned on being happy.

It’s not that he planned on being unhappy specifically, but reaching personal contentment wasn't exactly something he had ever visualized fitting on the roster. He’d stopped treating happiness like a given long ago. 

If John Winchester taught him anything, it was that happiness was a temporary vice. A vixen that seduced you until you were at your most vulnerable, and then it left you gutted and bleeding out on cold concrete. 

That’s not to say he wasn't happy- he loved his moments of happiness, movie nights in the bunker and screaming along to Zeppelin songs until his throat was hoarse and Sam looked at him with an endearing irritation in his eyes. 

It’s just that there were so many other moments in between the smiles and roadside dinners. That’s how they lived, the Winchesters, how they always had. It’s bags of salt stored in the back seat, bloodstains on every tee shirt, blades tucked under pillowcases. 

There had been years of that mindset, constant upheaval and panic and the _exhaustion._ Dean knew that feeling, knew it to his core, felt it in his bones. 

There’s a particular brand of tired that comes with fighting eldritch horrors and demonic entities for nearly forty goddamn years. It’s an ache that settles into your lungs and makes you wake up in the middle of the night reaching for a blade, ready to combat what's not there.

But just being happy, having that be the defining trait of one’s existence, that was a strange and foreign concept to him. 

So naturally, Heaven was very strange, at first. 

An adjustment, Bobby had called it. One minute, Dean was bleeding out with rebar entangled within his ribs, and the next he was standing on a dusty road in an Undisclosed American Somewhere, a place that managed to tie together all the pieces of his old life- the bunker, the roadhouse, Bobby’s safehouse, motels that he didn't know he remembered until he stepped foot in the lobby.

“Your only job now,” Bobby told him, “Is to be content. Do all the shit you’ve ever wanted to try.” He elbowed the bowlegged hunter. “I’ve picked up fencing.” Dean scoffed. “Fencing? But that’s so-” He wrinkled his forehead, eyebrows drawing closer together. “Niche?” Bobby interrupted. “I know. That’s the point. You can do anything here, Dean. Whatever makes you happy.” 

That seemed nice, at first. The pain was gone- the constant ache behind his right knee and the weight in his spine were gone. His scars were gone too, he discovered later.

It felt strange, being reborn like this. It was his body, he knew that, but without the tattoos and the bruises and the wrinkles. It felt like someone went over him with a magic eraser, taking away his past and present in a single movement. 

Sometimes, he missed the scars. He still felt weird buttoning up a shirt and not seeing the anti possession symbol on his chest.

Heaven was fascinating- you could only interact with people you’d known before. Like he could meet up with Ellen and Jo for tea, but no matter how far he traveled he’d never get to meet anyone really cool, like Joan of Arc or John Lennon. They were somewhere else, in some other brand of heaven. Probably a brand of heaven that included actual cities, not just sprawling wilderness. 

Dean spent days, years, hours, however time worked up here, driving along the most pristine slices of America. Dean knew it wasn't really America. American-inspired, for sure. There was a postcard quality to everything here. Everything felt like a snapshot. It felt nostalgic, no matter where he went, somehow, despite the landscapes being new and invented and perfect. Sometimes, he’d pull over the impala at a particularly beautiful overlook and gaze out at the sky or watch the bees as they flew low over meadows of flowers. _Wish you were here._

He got to see Charlie again, real Charlie, not other-world-Charlie, and damn had Dean missed her. She was as bubbly and geeky as always, joyously showing Dean the newest LARP set up that involved magical weapons and pegasuses, because this was Heaven, why shouldn't there be winged horses? 

She wasn't bitter or angry at Dean, or anyone else for that matter, which shocked him at first. “There’s no point crying over spilled milk,” she said, waving her hand nonchalantly after Dean tried to aologize profusely for her violent murder, “Now- wanna throw axes?” Dean did.

And it really was nice. Heaven was clearly curated almost perfectly. Dean could go between the bunker to a gentle wooden cabin tucked away in the woods, put there just for him. There was a beautiful kitchen with wide windows and a porch that overlooked a creek. The bed was soft and the wooden floors creaked in an impossibly familiar way. It did feel like home, like a home Dean never knew of, never would have exactly imagined, but fit just right. It was good. It really was.

He’d even gotten up the courage to wander down to John and Mary’s place. He stood just beyond the porch, debating, for what felt like hours, the back of his neck clamming up and his stomach churning. He didn't go in. 

And so he’d go home and lie in that soft bed with the navy sheets as the sun set. Dean would watch the golden rays light up the sky until they faded into a brilliant orange, and he’d try not to think about what he was doing wrong.

Everyone else here seemed so goddamn content. Everyone was happy, smiling, delighted with their eternal paradise. 

He couldn’t figure out why he felt so, well off. Maybe it was that he’d been damned to hell before, that heaven couldn’t quite accept a tarnished soul. Maybe it was because Sam wasn't here yet, but Dean knew that wasn't it either. Knowing Sammy was alive was a comforting thought he held close late at night when shit hit the fan and sleep was impossible. 

Maybe it was because Ca-. No. 

Bobby said it took a minute to adapt, to get used to the new life. To get those hunter’s impulses driven out of his system. He was paranoid, he knew that, his fight or flight triggered by shadows on the wall. But for some fucking reason he felt like he was holding his breath and he just needed to _exhale_ . There was something tight under his skin, something pulling at his intestines and crawling up his throat. It was suffocating and _always there._

It was his thirteenth sunset since arriving in Heaven. 

He’d stopped trying to measure by minutes or hours. Time here was just daylight and darkness. 

But now, after that thirteenth sunset, he was sitting upright in bed, sheets sticking to his sweaty legs, back to the wall. He closed his eyes. 

“Castiel,” he whispered, his chapped lips barely opening to let the name slip out. 

“Cas, uh. I hope you can hear me.” He cleared his throat awkwardly and opened his eyes, tilting his head to gaze at the ceiling. “I’m sure you can. I know you can. Uh. This is my,” he paused, trying to remember. His brain felt fuzzy. “Eighth?” 

Time really was getting blurry up here. Bobby was right. 

Sometimes, it flitted by so quickly he couldn't believe it, other times he felt like he was fighting his way through weighted air. “Eighth” He said it was certaining this time, “praying to you since I got here.” 

He resisted the urge to clear his throat again. He settled for a pause instead. “I miss you. I’m sorry.” 

And now he had no choice but to take a pause because his throat was thick with emotion. “I’m so fucking sorry, Cas. I- I wish you hadn't done that. Sacrificed yourself, I mean. You can be a really stupid for a celestial.” He let out a breathy chuckle, eyes stinging just slightly. 

“It’s just. You- you never gave me a chance to say anything back. I wish you had. Cas you-” He was crying now. The tears ran warm down his face, and he snuffled hurriedly, trying to keep his composure. He had to do that. “Anyways. I fucking miss you, man. I uh. I hope we can talk soon. I-” He sighed. “I have some things to say.” 

A silence filled the room. It was deafening. “I uh. I know you probably don't wanna talk to me. It’s why you haven't. Responded. Yet.” The silence expanded. Dean felt sweaty.

“And I get it. That’s your right. I uh, I wouldn't wanna talk to me either.” He sniffed awkwardly. “Anyways I’m sure you are busy with angel business. Off with capital-G God. Tell Jack I love ‘im for me, will you? I hope he’s doing alright. It can't be easy.” 

He sighed again, his breath tumbling out of him too quickly.

“Now I’m ramblin’ and wasting your time. Sorry. Again. Uh.” He paused again, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I really am. Really fucking sorry. Talk to you later.”

He sat there for a moment, tangled in his sheets, tee shirt sticking to his side uncomfortably. “Oh shit, right. Uh, over n’ out, signing off, amen, all that.”

He wanted to hit himself, the anxiety and the _fucking desperation_ was so disgustingly obvious in his voice. He closed his eyes again, resting the back of his head against the cool wall. He tried to imagine a shift in the air, the familiar sound of angel’s wings, the flap of a trenchcoat.

He looked across the room, eyes opening warily, staring at the wooden paneled walls. For a moment, he was hopeful. Maybe this time would be different.

The room stayed dead quiet. 

He fell asleep there, with his back against the wall, eventually. 

_____________

He awoke to the smell of bacon. For a moment, a grin stretched across his face. Sammy finally broke, he thought. He was making bacon instead of settling for that ridiculous bran cereal. 

But then Dean remembered slanted ceiling beams and particle-crowded light streaming through wooden slat walls and Sammy’s face and blood on his second favorite jacket and something wedged right next to his spine and _pain so much pain_ and he threw off the sheets, hurdling down the stairs, already thinking about what he could use as a weapon because who the _fuck_ was in his house- 

Dean almost threw himself into the kitchen, heart hammering, ready to grab the paring knife that he knew he’d left on the nearest counter when he was greeted by a smiling face. 

Mary Winchester was standing in his kitchen, frying up bacon like there wasn't a problem in the world. “You're up!” She cried happily. “Hope we didn't spook you, sweetie.” She smiled again, tilted her head at Dean as her blond hair glowed in the sunlight. 

She was here, she was alive. She was so- _so intact_. She looked more put together, physically and emotionally, then Dean had ever seen her. 

His head felt sluggish. “W-” he scrunched up his forehead. “We?” He was wide awake now, he’d always been a light sleeper, but his brain was still trying to catch up with the world around him because there was _Mom_ and she was _cooking_ and _smiling_ and-

“What?” came another voice from the left. Dean swiveled fast. He knew that voice. The graying man walked into the kitchen from the patio, shutting the door with his back foot. “Thought she’d leave me at home?” 

John Winchester smiled too, the corners of his eyes folding in a way Dean had never seen before. “Come on,” he laughed, his voice deep and resounding and familiar, “She’s stuck with me forever.” 

The main crossed the living room and elbowed Dean slightly, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Besides, we both know she can’t cook without me.”

Mary gasped from the stove, offended. “Can too!” She protested, tossing the spatula down with joyful mock-anger. 

John grinned, stepping over to her, wrapping her in his army jacket-clad arms. “The burning bacon suggests otherwise.” 

Mary slipped out from under his arms fluidly, scraping the bacon off the griddle at lightning speed. She found Dean's eyes again, and smiled. “Ahhh, Dean and I both like it a little crispier, anyways. Ain’t that right, hon?”

Dean realized he had not moved this entire time, his hand still hovering numbly over the paring knife. His shoulders were tense, almost up to his ears, he knew that he knew they could see his discomfort, they could see the shock in his eyes, his face, he wasn't hiding it he had to hide it. He moved his arm from the knife quickly and rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Ha. You got me, Mom.” 

He shifted awkwardly. “I uh-”

“Come on!” John- _Dad-_ interrupted, moving back towards the patio door. “Breakfast is waiting.”

Mary hurried towards the door, the platter of bacon in hand. “You coming?” she asked Dean, but she wasn't really asking and Dean knew it. He smiled weakly. “Yeah.” 

She walked out the door, John holding it wide open for her, sunlight streaming around the couple.

Dean moved his hand to smooth out his shirt. “Yeah.” 

He went to the door.

________

Breakfast was an elaborate affair. Dean had never seen anything like it, not during the four years of his life before Mom died the first time, not during the 14 years when he followed his father after, and certainly not during the years hunting with Sam. 

Part of him felt self conscious- he was sitting there in a smelly stained white tee shirt and navy sweatpants, his hair stuck to his forehead and nails bit to shreds. His Mom looked perfect- white v neck top and casual jeans with curled blonde hair. She’d painted her nails, he noticed. He never remembered her doing that before. John wore what he’d always worn, a big canvas coat and flannel with heavy boots, his dark hair slicked back. It was commanding, put together. 

Dean was a mess. He ran a hand over his stubble self-consciously as his foot started tapping out of anxious habit. This was good, he told himself. This was nice. 

There was any breakfast food he could ask for- scrambled eggs, egg mcmuffins, bacon, and french toast dominated one side of the table, the other piled high with pancakes and syrup and a small bowl of cut strawberries. Dean smiled a little as he sat down. It was diner food, he realized, all his favorites from the road, but homemade. 

He took a quick bite of sausage. He couldn't explain how, but he knew he’d had this exact sausage before. There was something there, some happy memory, some brand of nostalgia. He closed his eyes, trying to place it exactly. He thought he remembered Vegas and blue eyes, but he was interrupted by John chuckling.

“Your mother’s become quite the cook, eh?” The elder Winchester joked, mistaking Dean’s closed eyes for bliss. “She’s been intent on learning since we got here. Can't rely on microwave dinners forever.”

Dean didn't laugh. He ate a bite of scrambled egg instead, ignoring the part of his brain that wanted to explore whatever memories were attached to the flavor. 

Everything here was like that- like a broken mirror or a spider web, entangled together and all connected to something else in no discernible pattern. 

A silence had fallen over the table, only broken by the clinking of John’s fork on his plate. Mom wasnt eating, and Dean was starting to dully wonder why when she spoke up. 

“What a view!” She said enthusiastically. Dean nodded, mouth full. She was right, it was a beautiful view. 

None of the landscapes here were exactly places on real earth, more like an amalgamation of the general Great American Outdoors. Dean imagined the view he got was most like the Rockies. The porch was perched on the slide of a sloping forest. At the bottom, a small creek carved its way through a sweet valley, and above it all stood the shapes of massive mountains, peaks lined with just the right amount of snow.

It was quiet again. Mary seemed nervous.

“So, uh.” She smiled again, warmly. “Vampires, huh?”

It took Dean one too-long moment to realize what she was talking about. “Oh! Oh. Yeah.”

John sucked his teeth. “Nasty fuckers. It wasn't that uh-” he tapped his fork on his plate loudly, clearly trying to capture a memory, the sound a reminder to those around him to not dare interrupt, “Ben. Benny! It wasn't him, right?”

Dean scoffed. “No. Not Benny.” He licked his upper lip anxiously. Dad had never approved of Benny, even before he became a vamp. It was a long running source of tension. Dean was usually careful not to bring him up around his father. “It was these weird clown vampires. Ohio. They were taking kids.” 

John nodded silently. “Mm. Honorable way to go.” He said. “Like you wanted, right?”

Dean felt his brow furrow before he could remind himself not to react. “What?”

He wanted to smack himself again. Fucking hell- how many times did he have to learn not to be angry, not to be emotional, around his father. That was a basic fucking rule-

  
“I mean,” John started up again, “That’s what you used to say. You wanted a hero's death.”

Dean blinked. “I-”

‘Better then how I went out, anyways. Goddamn deals. Never take the deal.” John was already moving on, grumbling as he reached for the syrup. 

“It’s-” Dean tried to shake himself of the thought of a hero’s death as words formed unprepared on his lips- “It’s good to see you both again. I wasn't sure that was ever gonna happen.” 

Mary smiled. “Of course, you’d see us again, silly.” Her smile was wide. Her teeth were whiter than Dean remembered. Heaven must do that. Amplify your happiness.

“Come on,” John said, laughing in that strange baritone again, “Did’ya think you’d never see us again? What? You thought I was hellbound or something?” He laughed again at the very notion.

Dean smiled weakly. “I don’t know, it’s just. I missed you both.” 

John leaned back in his chair, smile slipping from his face. “Yeah. Missed us so much that you haven't been able to muster up the energy to visit once in two weeks.” 

Mary slapped his thigh, as if she was a scolding housewife from a 60’s sitcom, as if he had made a mischievous joke, as if he had fondly called out Dean for something silly and sweet and goofy. It felt off. Sickly sweet. Unreal. Dean still felt half-asleep. His brain wasnt responding right.

Dean’s stomach turned. “I, uh.”

The silence was back.

“I wanted to make sure I had the right words to say to you.”

His heart was catching up with the situation and beating, fast. He knew he was an adult, in size 10 boots and with graying hair, but some part of him still felt like a scared 11 year old, face already slightly downturned, waiting for the punch or the words. His shoulders were tense again, he was ready for the table to be thrown, for John to relentlessly mock his excuse, because even he knew it was weak. 

Dean felt a shift from where John was sitting. He briefly debated slipping the steak knife from the table into his hand. He decided against it- he wasn't gonna stab his father and resisting usually made it worse- and he was bracing for impact and he felt the blood pumping in his veins and-

“I get it.”

Dean looked back up. His father hadn't moved, he was still leaning back in his chair, his feet up on the table. He was relaxed, not threatening.

Dean’s shoulders stayed tense. He’d been tricked before.

“No, really.” John said quickly. 

“It took me a whole month before I went over to Bobby’s. I was afraid of what he had left to say to me.” He picked at his teeth for a moment before running his hand over his beard. “It’s strange,” he said softly, “Seeing all these people again. People I thought were lost, people I forced myself to stop thinking about.”

Dean was in a state of mild shock again. 

“It’s tricky getting used to it all. I had a lot of explaining to do, to a lot of people, when I first got here.” He reached for Mary’s hand. “We had a lot of talking to do. A lot of things to say.” 

The man smiled. “It gets better.”

Dean smiled too, his heart rate starting to go back to a normal human rate.

He was still angry, he knew that. Rightfully so. How fucking dare his father sit there and talk about ownership and apologies without giving him one. 

Dean was owed a goddamn apology- he knew that more than he’d known anything. For leaving him with Sammy at age 10 in a motel room armed with a shotgun and two cans of spaghettios for four goddamn weeks, and still getting angry at Dean for having stolen food. For that time John grabbed Dean by the arm and shoved him to a wall for looking at a man funny. For that time when John took him on his first ever hunt and let him get snagged by a banshee to “put the fear of god into him. 

Part of him wanted to scream in his father’s face, curse him out and throw shit. Part of him wanted to tell him in graphic detail exactly how much explaining he had to do. He wanted to lean forward, look into his father’s eyes, and tell him exactly how he shaped who Dean was as a dysfunctional wreck of a human being.

But not today, he decided. 

Today he was gonna take the cards as they were played and eat bacon with his dead parents in a dimension he didn't fully believe existed until he actually got here. He was here for eternity. He could wait.

__________________

Breakfast was long over and John and Mary had climbed back into a restored Thunderbird (she purrs like a _lioness_ , John had assured Dean with a slap on the back) and left behind a small cloud of dust. Dean had stood there for a moment, watching the dust particles hover in the sunlight.

Eventually he got into baby and drove over to Bobby’s. He was already on the porch, cooler by his side and a stained baseball cap pulled low over his face.

Dean still smiled every time he saw him. He knew it would take a multitude of heavenly sunsets to ever stop being a little surprised when he pulled up to that porch and saw the man sitting there, alive and happy.

“I heard you had breakfast with the folks this morning!” Bobby shouted down at Dean as he walked up the front steps.

Dean bounded up the last stair with extra gusto. Bobby passed him a cold beer as Dean settled down in a chair next to the older hunter. “Well?” Bobby asked.

“Well what?” Dean took a swig. The beer was cold and tasted like the feeling of a good ending to a long day. 

“How’d it go?” Bobby asked. 

“You mean did Dad and I get into a screaming match?”  
  
“That’s exactly what I mean, yes.” Bobby took a longer overly dramatic drink. Dean wasn't looking at him but he knew his eyes were probably rolling. 

“No. We didn't. It was nice, actually. They seem.” Dean paused for a second, trying to pick the word. “At peace.” 

Bobby chuckled. “Never thought you’d see the day, did’ya?” 

Dean laughed. “No, no I gotta admit I did not.” He took another swig. “I still can't believe this suits them.”

“All this?”

Dean wiped under his lip and gestured widely around the porch. “You know, all this. Heaven. Eternal domestic bliss. I’d have thought Dad would get bored.” 

Bobby leaned back. “You bored, Dean?”

Dean paused. “I mean. Not exactly. It’s just.” He sighed. “I used to dream about escaping the life. You know, lying down the guns and the blades and retiring. Hang up the coat and all that.”

He chewed on his inner lip. “But this? It doesn't feel. Right.”

Bobby made his little “hmmph” noise. Dean took that as a sign to continue talking. 

“Like? It’s wonderful here. Everything is pretty perfect.” He chuckled lightly, rasing up his beer as proof, “I mean, how the fuck can this actually taste like-” he checked the label- “tranquility, good labor, and sunshine? Like the fuck does that even mean? 

He took another sip. “And that’s exactly what it tastes like! It’s fantastic and makes no sense. But there's.” He paused again. “There's something missing.”

Bobby shook his head. “You brothers. So codependent.”

Dean slapped his upper arm. “Hey! We’re not co-de-fucking-pendent.”

“You absolutely are. You think Sammy’s doing well on earth right now? You think you leaving him like that was okay?” He lifted his hat, looking Dean dead in the eyes. Something in his stomach shifted. “Nah. You brothers need each other. You’ll feel better when he gets here. That’s what this is.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t- I don’t think that’s it Bobby.”

Bobby looked at him all deadpan again before shaking his head and finishing his beer. 

“No, really. I don’t. I want Sam to be happy on Earth, more than anything. That’s- that’s all I wanted. For a long time.” He gazed off the porch blankly as he realized the harsh truth of that statement. 

He had lived for his brother’s safety, for years. It was always about protecting Sammy. That’s why he stayed a loyal guardian in motel rooms, clutching shotgun shells and praying for gas stations without anti-theft cameras. Shit, he’d sold his soul for his brother. 

“Exactly.” Bobby interrupted. “You miss him. It’s natural.” He elbowed Dean. “It was the same way with me and my family. I missed you. I feel more complete now that you're here.” He chuckled lightly again. “Don’t get me wrong, you died way too young and way too stupid but. I’m glad you're here.”

Dean looked at the ground again. “It’s just. Sometimes I almost miss the life. Maybe that’s what this is. I had so much to fight against for _so_ long, and now I just get to drive around in my car all day, and that’s it. That’s all I’m supposed to do.”

Bobby was silent next to him. 

“Do you- did you ever miss it? Hunting, I mean?”

Bobby smiled. “Sure. But I know this place,” he slapped the chair he was sitting on, “All of it, this new heaven and the entire set up, is because of you boys. That gives me pride. I did what I set out to do. Now I get to rest.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “That sounds mighty like a Kansas song.”

“Shut up. I’m not bullshitting, Dean. A break will do you good. Sam will get here soon. Just hold on.”

Dean bit the inside of his lip again. He discovered that no matter how hard he bit, it wouldn't bleed. 

“Find a hobby. I told you about fencing, right?”

Dean nodded distantly. “Yeah. A hobby.” 

He scrunched up his forehead. “Hey uh, do you know if Benny ended up here?”

Bobby looked confused. “He’s a vamp, Dean. They go to purgatory. You know that.”

Dean nodded. It’s what he expected. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just. You said Cas helped. Before. That just seemed like the type of thing he’d have wanted to sort out.”

Bobby nodded. “As far as I’m aware, he’s not here. You should ask around. Ash would know.” 

Dean hesitated before answering. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

_____

That evening, Dean went on a long drive. Midway through what he imagined to be heaven’s version of the Sierras, he pulled over and clambered out of baby. Bird song danced in the air, accompanied by the gentle sound of branches in the wind.

The sun was starting to slink down under the mountain ridges, golden rays fighting for visibility through the tips of red firs and whitebark pines. 

He trekked up the ridge of a rocky cliffside for a while, until he came to a massive overlook. One side of the rock was sheet, straight down for hundreds of feet. Below his boots, a waterfall erupted from the cliff, water tracing the rock face all the way down till the bottom where it fed a massive lake. Dean dully wondered what would happen if he fell.

He sat on the cliff face, gazing off into the sunset. A gentle breeze filtered through his hair. He closed his eyes.

He kept hoping if he tried really hard he could sense Castiel’s touch here. Bobby said he helped. So Dean kept looking for his marks.

He knew the angel well enough to know his affinity for certain beautiful things.

He loved meadows, Dean remembered that. He always thought the way that each of these unique wildflowers managed to coexist and thrive together was fascinating and endearing. He loved how the bumblebees crashed into the stalks over flowers. He loved watching butterflies flap by slowly.

He loved family-run inns. He’d harass Dean for hours about the ethics of staying at a Motel 6 when there was a lovely BNB _right there,_ how it was a _small local business,_ and Dean would pretend to resist and half-heartedly protest until he’d pull into the BNB’s little parking lot instead. And Cas would smile, the flaps of his trench coat all messed up and sticking the wrong ways and Sammy would grumble about how Dean never stopped at the BNBs _he_ wanted. 

He remembered Cas’s love for mountain overlooks. Again and again on long haul trips to rural destinations, Cas would lean over from the backseat and ask to pull over and look out at the mountains and the trees and the light. Dean would watch the sunset reflect in Cas’s eyes, the golden glow enveloping the angel. 

He’d look content in those moments. Sometimes, Dean imagined that the sunlight would erase anything that was wrong, the years, the bruises, the fear, the dirt, all of it, just for a few blissful minutes.

So here Dean sat, the most perfect overlook he could find.

He put his hand down on the stone, fingers splayed out as wide as they could get, and he closed his eyes, reaching, searching, fucking praying that somewhere here he would feel the angel’s presence, feel his eyes, feel his influence. It had to be somewhere. If Cas helped, Dean would find exactly where he was responsible for and he’d let the energy wash over him, claim him, seep into his bones. 

Dean felt tears welling up behind his eyelids. There was no feeling here. There was no gentle touch, no aura of love, no smell of pine and nutmeg. Cas hadn't done this. Cas hadn't been here.

Dean opened his eyes and let the tears fall silently. He pulled his hand into a fist, letting the little nubs of his fingernails dig into his palm. 

He hung his head back, face turned up towards the sky. “Cas,” he started, voice at a low whisper. His brain felt fuzzy again. Fuck it, he pulled himself up to his feet, standing up right, arms up and face looking directly at the sky. 

“Castiel!” He shouted, voice strong and loud and desperate and angry. “Where the FUCK are you?” He spun around wildly, almost tripping over his own feet as they dragged across the rockface. “Huh? You told me-” He wasn't crying silently anymore, this was a loud hiccuping sob now- “You fuckin’ told me you’d always come when I called.” 

There was this heat in his chest now, a heat moving through his whole being, his lungs, his throat, his gut. 

He turned back around, fully facing the setting sun, entire body lit up in the golden-orange light. “Well, I’m fucking calling!” He screamed, the sound tearing through his vocal chords. 

“CAS!” The waterfall felt like it was growing louder. 

There was nothing there. He knew it to his very core, somehow. 

Cas wasn't coming.

Dean stopped spinning. He was only about eight inches from the side of the cliff now. He paused for a moment. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. 

He thought about jumping for a moment, just for the hell of it. Why not? 

It was Heaven. It’s not like he could die. Or feel physical pain.

Part of him wanted to do it, just out of sheer curiosity. 

Instead he slumped over, and let the grief wash over him.

He was gone. Castiel was gone. He wasn't in this place, for some reason or another, and he was gone. 

Dean was surrounded by nearly everyone he’d ever lost and still felt entirely fucking alone. 

There was something wrong, something rotten inside him.

He was in Heaven, _the_ Heaven, and he still wasn't content. How fucking selfish could you be, he wondered, to be in eternal paradise and still not be at peace, still not feel at rest. 

The last beams of sunlight were pulled under the horizon. Sunset ws over. The sky was stained dark tones of orange and magenta. 

And so he did what he always did- he dried his tears, got up, walked back over to baby, pushed a cassette player into the deck, and started the long drive home. Come on Eileen started blasting as he pulled out of park.

He didn't remember adding that one to the mix. A lot of Heaven worked like that- things happened because you wanted them to, not because you set them up to happen. If you fall asleep dreaming of banana bread, you’ll wake up to a loaf on the counter. If you were fixing up a car and needed a wrench you’d forgotten on the other side of the garage, it would suddenly appear right next to your hand.

Come on Eileen was an unusual song to add to the list of “things Dean didn't know he was thinking about”, a registry heaven seemed to be constantly compiling. The upbeat opening bars still brought a small smile to his face as he took a wide turn along the scenic mountainside.

He used to torment Sammy by chasing him around the bunker with this song when he first started seeing Eileen. Claire had taught him about bluetooth speakers, and he had a joy of a time rigging them up all across the bunker. For a whole week, the song would play any time Sammy entered a room. It drove him batshit. Eileen taught Dean how to sign some of the lyrics so she could cash in on the fun too. 

She was good like that, Eileen. Happy to joke around, as long as it put a smile on Sam’s face. 

_Poor old Johnnie Ray_

Dean remembered when she died the first time. It really fucked Sam up, even though he didn't want to admit it.

_Sounded sad upon the radio_

Dean always knew Sam trying on the macho persona meant things were bad. He knew Sam practiced ASL night at night for weeks after she kicked it. He wondered if Sammy knew he knew. 

_Moved a million hearts in mono_

When she came back, Sammy was happier than Dean had ever seen him. It was pretty remarkable. He looked like a golden retriever, all things considered.

_Our mothers cried_

His entire face was lit up, and he had this face-splitting grin for weeks. 

_Sang along, who’d blame them?_

The music was picking up. Dean’s foot tapped along. 

_Now I must say more than ever_

He hoped they were together now. Sam and Eileen. He knew Sammy had been waiting to see her after Jack brought her back. He spent a lot of time being worried about Dean, right after it all ended. Dean pretended not to notice. 

_Come on Eileen_

Eileen and Sam deserved a life together. One without-

And the upbeat music seemed to strain, McDerrple’s voice stretched out and waived until Dean smelled sulfur. The entire tape deck was smoldering, smoke pouring out of the cassette player. 

“Fuck!” Dean swore, looking down and trying to pull the tape out. The tips of his fingers burned as they came in contact with the deck. Static was beginning to fill the impala.

_Reigned to what- what- fate is- sunken_

He pulled his hand back from the red-hot tape, shaking his hand to try and cool his finger tips, when the very ground below the impala started to shift. It looked like a map loading incorrectly in a video game, like something was pushing through the earth and the asphalt of the road was curving around the shape, coating it like rubber. 

_These things they are- are- aren't- real_

Reflexes took over and he pulled baby into reverse, the fastest he’d ever managed to do it, and he hauled ass back down the road, tossing his burnt hand over the passenger seat to see what was coming up behind him. He could feel the blisters developing on his fingertips already.

And then the music stopped entirely, static gone too. 

There was now a massive shape in the road, about three stories tall and filling the entire road. It wasn't really a definable shape. It almost looked like part of a massive hand had tried to reach upwards from underground. 

Dean’s heart was pounding. 

The melted tape shot out violently from the tape deck. Dean numbly raised his hand. 

It looked perfectly fine, skin smooth and bitten nails fully regrown. There was no ugly red blisters, no puffy skin, nothing swollen or the tiniest bit out of place.

He reached out for the eject tape button. As soon as he touched the dash, a new tape instantly appeared in the slot, already playing.

_Come on Eileen, you mean everything_

Dean let out a long shaky breath, and ran a hand through his hair. What the fuck what the fuck what the _fuck._

The shape bending the road seemed to deflate slowly. 

It was a glitch, he thought slowly. 

Like in a video game. 

The road flattened out entirely. Dean took a moment to shake out his wrists.

He pressed gently on the gas as the next song started playing. _Heat of the moment_. He smiled. This one he knew was on the tape from his own physical work. He passed over the now flattened asphalt cautiously. 

It was as if nothing happened. The bird song resumed. 

Nothing else went wrong on the drive home.

It was pristine again. Postcard-like. Dean wasn't sure why he couldn't get that comparison out of his head. 

Maybe it was because everything here was still partially built from memory. It’s how the food could taste how it did- everything connected back to his life on Earth. The people he met, the places he saw, the beer he drank, it was all a messy web right back to forty one years of living-breathing-earth-dwelling Dean Winchester.

It wasn't until he’d pulled up to the cabin, stars twinkling in the navy twilight sky, that it occurred to him.

Maybe, he wondered dully, that’s why he felt so shitty here. He’d lived a long goddamn life, and forty of those years had been spent, well. The opposite of here.

He’d read about it years ago, back when he still had the imprint of Cas’s hand on his arm. Marked souls wouldn't be permitted into heaven. If you had even a whiff of hell about you, you’d be kicked right out, left on the curb in front of the golden gates, the whole 9 yards. Back when they first infiltrated Heaven, all those years ago, Dean had so worried he’d set off some alarm. 

He thought the idea was kind of funny now. But maybe part of it still rang true. No, he wasn't barred from entry but maybe, just maybe, he was marked enough to warrant some issues.Like the glitching he’d seen earlier. Maybe Heaven was broken. Just for him.

He closed the cabin door behind him as he thought about it.

That, he decided, was some self-pitying narcissistic horseshit.

No. Heaven was new. Bobby said so. There’s always glitches in new programs. Little errors.

And yes, some part of him scratched at his brain whispering _the problem is you the problem is you you are the problem you slipped through a mistake in the code you’re here by mistake or just because Cas is too fucking blind to see what you are and what you are is a black hole, a fucking vortex consuming everything that’s good all around you-_

Dean threw a plate. The scratching part of his brain was quiet again.

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He cleaned up the shattered pieces with ease. A dustpan appeared by his hand as soon as he bent down to pick up the china shards. It was weird, not worrying about the sharp pieces digging into his hands. He scooped them up numbly.

He didn't even remember picking up the plate. It just. Appeared. He wanted his brain to shut up, wanted to make a noise louder than his head, and there it was, a white polished plate, right between his fingers. 

He scoffed. Eternal paradise. What a concept. 

He fell asleep quickly that night. He dreamt of Miracle and Eileen and Sam. It was beautiful. 

_____________________

  
  


Dean woke up to music. 

It was soft, at first. Guitar strings and subtle bass.

_For starts_

Dean sat straight up. He didn't know this song. He hadn't put it on any tape, any playlist. He didn't even have speakers set up here yet. 

_What a waste to say the heart could feel apart_

Dean wandered cautiously down the stairs. He doubted this was his father.

_Or feel complete, Baby_

This was blues. It was gentle and beautiful. This was not made for John Winchester’s hands.

_Why would you make out of words a cage for your own bird?_

Wait. Maybe Dean did recognize this. He burst into the kitchen.

_When it sings so sweet_

The kitchen was empty, as was the adjacent dining table. Through the windows, Dean could tell there was no one on the porch either. There was just a small radio, old fashioned, sitting on the table.

_The screaming, heaving, fuckery of the world?_

Shit, Dean _did_ know this. Claire and Kaia used to play this song all the time. 

_Why would you offer a name to the same old tired pain?_

The song felt like Castiel, Dean decided. He debated searching the rest of the house for intruders, grabbing the paring knife from the counter and following every hunter’s instinct that he possessed.

_When all things come from nothing, and honey if nothing’s gained_

Instead, he stood stock still in the kitchen, listening.

_My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand_

_It’s how I know now that you understand_

Dean leaned against the staircase. 

_There's no plan_

_There's no race to the sun_

Dean’s eyes widened slightly as the lyrics sunk in. He wasn't sure if he was legally allowed to listen to this in Heaven. 

_The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun_

_There’s no plan, there's no kingdom to come_

_I’ll be your man-----------_

And just like the other day with Come on Eileen, the song began to stretch and lengthen. It felt like it was being pulled apart and patched together again with static crowding the gaps between song and void. For a second, it was quiet. 

And then, those opening notes played again.

_For Starts-_

The entire section of the song played through again, and it fell apart at exactly the same place, before looping again. By the third time, Dean got wise and willed a notepad and pencil into his hands. He scribbled down the lyrics in his chicken-scratch handwriting. 

Just moments after he had all the words down, the radio began to smolder, smoke pouring out of the panel in the back. The song stopped midline.

And not two seconds later, the entire radio disappeared. Gone. 

Dean sat down at the dining room table in minor shock. 

It was a glitch again, he realized. It had to be.

But this was- this was strange. This was specific. The last glitch, that could have just been a map loading problem, if that's even how Heaven worked. But this? This was lyrics, on repeat, that played exactly until Dean didn't need them anymore. This felt purposeful. 

He smiled a little. This was a mission. A job. A mystery to solve.

And if Dean could do anything, it was a hunt.

_________________________


	2. No Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some TWs: Homophobia and Suicide are discussed in this chapter. If thats an issue, please take care of yourself.

The first thing he learned was that the song was called No Plan, by a tall Irish dude named Hozier. Dean knew the name vaguely- Kaia had brought him up before.

The second thing he learned was that there wasn't really google in Heaven. If you asked a question, like “Who invented air conditioning?”, a book with the answer would appear in your hands (So in the case of air conditioning, you’d probably get a biography of Willis Carrier. You might also get a magazine detailing Frederick Jones’ discoveries, and then a shit load of printed blog posts detailing the controversy.)

Hozier lyrics were less complicated to research, which led Dean to his third discovery- that the song directly referenced the bible, specifically Timothy 4:7. Within moments, Dean had a bible in his hands and was flipping through the pages. 

“I have fought the good fight,” he read softly, “I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck.

The song was clear in it’s messaging- Heaven wasn't real, in order to exist as a free persona one must shed the cage of religion and stop living for an afterlife that wouldn't exist. It was a love song, Dean thought with a small smile, to rebellion and to those you rebel with. 

But why would he be sent a song about atheism and the romance of rebellion? He was in Heaven. There was a God- he’s a four year old named Jack. And for the romance of rebellion, well. He’d passed up his shot at that already.

He had fought the good fight. He had finished the race. Sure, he sprinted the last part but he did it. It was the last part of the biblical verse that tripped him up.

No, he never had much faith in God. 

For a while, the thing most akin to god in his life was his own father- commanding and strict and all-knowing. John Winchester could define what was sin and what was sacrifice and demand them both in a single fell swoop. He’d tell Dean to repent and he would. For years, that’s what Dean Winchester was- a loyal soldier, a holy weapon, the one believer in his father’s church.

Castiel’s words rolled over him like the tide. He was his Daddy’s blunt instrument. He was wielded and shaped and _violent._

And then there was Cas and there was a real capital G God and it all went to shit. 

One of the first things Dean learned was that real God wasn't that different from his own father. Both were distant entities who left their children to search for meaning in his orders. Cas had practically said so when they first met.

Dean leaned back in his chair.

No, he had not kept the faith. There was only one entity he’d ever prayed to, and it sure as shit wasn't God.

Was that his problem? His lack of faith? Is that why he felt out of place here?

Cas had called him on it a dozen times. It was one of the first things he ever said to the hunter.

Some wistful part of him thought that maybe it was Cas sending the songs. 

Dean was about to pick up the bible and read through the rest of the verse for clues when there was a slamming on the door. 

Maybe just because Cas was already on his mind, but for just a second, the bunker flashed through his mind. He remembered Billie’s fist on the door, the panic in his lungs, Castiel’s gentle smile as he threw him into the wall.

The knocking on the door came again. Dean shook himself from the memory and strided across the living room to answer it. 

Bobby was standing on the porch, clearly disgruntled. He was wearing a green army vest over flannel and a fishing cap, exactly the same as he’d been dressed the day before. Dean tried to remember if he’d been dressed like that the entire time he’d been here. 

“What?” Dean demanded. “What was so goddamn important-”

Bobby rolled his eyes and cut him off. “Idjit. You forgot, didnt you?”

“Forgot- forgot what?” Dean asked, his brain scrambling to pick up some important detail. Was it a birthday? An anniversary? No, they didn't have those here. His brain felt foggy. He’d been feeling like that more and more, recently. He tried to focus.

“Drinks!” Bobby interjected. “Roadhouse. You were supposed to meet Ellen, Jo, and I. Remember?”

“I-” Dean frowned. “I honestly don't. I’m sorry.” 

Bobby scoffed. “You a lightweight now? We didn't even drink that much yesterday.” He pushed passed Dean and into the cabin. “You drink more after you got home or something?”

Dean was still hanging by the doorway, trying to reach back into yesterday afternoon. “No I- I don’t think so. I-” he frowned. “I didn't even go straight home.”

Bobby rolled his eyes again. “And to think I thought you were a functioning alcoholic.” His eyes caught the kitchen table, which was covered in books and song lyrics. “What’s all this?”

Dean’s face lit up. Whether or not he could remember drinks with Bobby was no longer of importance, because this was a story. He crossed the room in long strides, picking up the piece of paper where he’d hastily scrawled down the lyrics earlier.

“Okay,” he started. “I _think_ it’s a case.”

Bobby looked at him incredulously. He comedically resembled a goldfish.

“Dean-” He began slowly.

“No, no, no, let me explain. I know it sounds batshit, trust me I fuckin’ know, but let me explain.” He reached across the table to push out a chair for Bobby, gesturing at it wildly. Bobby got the idea and sat.

“Okay so, yesterday, we had drinks, right?” Bobby nodded. Dean’s brain felt foggy again but he pushed through it. “So after drinks I went on a drive, a long one.” Dean decided to skip over the part where he sobbed on a mountainside while praying to an uninterested angel. “And on the way home I’m listening to music, right?”

Bobby nodded. “Yes, Dean, I’m aware of your affinity for classic rock. You make it at least 35% of your personality.” 

Dean waved him off. “Can it. I’m going somewhere.” He tried to refocus. “I was driving on the way home, and my music was playing, and then it wasn't my music. You remember that British song- come on Eileen?”

Bobby nodded. 

“Yeah, it’s not on ANY of my cassette mixes. None of them. I only got into it right before-” He stopped for a moment. “Yeah. It wasn't on my mix that was playing at the time and I hadn't set it up to play, but it did. But it was iffy- it started skipping lines and repeating and then the road glitched.”

“Glitched?”

“Yeah. Glitched. It started stretching, it looked like something underneath it was pushing upwards or something. It took over the whole road, I couldn't drive forward anymore.”

Bobby frowned. “Huh. Haven't heard of that happening here before.”

“Right?” Dean said. “Exactly. It was fucking weird. And then this morning-”

“This morning?”

“Yes, this morning. Let me talk Bobby. This morning I woke up and there was a radio playing. I didn't own a radio, and I’ve never owned a copy of the song. It was one of kaia’s favorites she-”

He stopped. “You never got to meet her. You’d have liked her. Smart. Anyways, it was playing, and-” he thrust the lyrics at Bobby. “It was just this part of the song on loop, and as soon as I’d written down all the words,” he spread both his hands wide in the air. “Poof. The radio vanished. Completely gone.”

Bobby leaned back in his chair. “And see,” Dean continued, “the song references this one bible verse, right? So I’m thinking it’s telling us there’s something wrong, something to investigate that relates to that exact verse. The road thing was to get my attention and now I need to figure this out and it’ll fix everything.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Everything?”

Dean could feel some weird anxiety growing within him as he tried to explain. He wished Sam was here. He’d know what to say. “Just. This. All of this. Something hasn't been right since I got here and this-” he pointed at the scattered pages, “Is why. It’s telling me how to fix it, Bobby.”

Bobby looked at him sadly. “Okay, Dean. What’s the verse.”

Dean pushed pages off the table to push the bible under Bobby’s nose. “This one. Timothy 4:7.” 

Bobby read the verse quietly, his lips moving with the words. He sat up.

“Dean, sit down.”

Dean did.

Bobby leaned forward. “You don’t see it?”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “See what?”

Bobby sighed. His eyes looked sympathetic, drawing in pity. Dean hated that look. He’d only seen it in Bobby’s eyes a few times before.

“Dean, let’s think about how things work here for a minute.” Bobby held out his hand, a beer appeared in it moments later. “The physical being of this place is attached to what you want, right? You want a beer, you get a beer. Want to go fishing, the perfect road suddenly opens up.”

He stopped talking, looking at Dean expectantly.

“No shit, Bobby. Stop looking at me like I’m a child and make your point.” There was a familiar edge in his voice now. He hated hearing it.

Bobby sighed again. “Just yesterday, right before whatever glitching happened, you told me you were bored. You missed working. 

“That’s right.”

“And then almost immediately, a case forms around you.”

Dean leaned back in his chair. 

“Two songs you don’t usually think about but know have played. Dean, they just played because you missed the people they remind you of.”

Bobby was looking Dean dead in the eyes. 

“There’s no case. You invented one by accident.”

Dean scoffed. “Horseshit.”

“Not horsehit.” 

“How are you so sure?” Dean’s voice cracked a tiny bit as the tail end of that sentence slipped from his lips.

“Because, Dean, this is heaven. If it senses you aren't happy, it’ll try it’s best to create an environment where you are. This-” he paused, wetting his lips. “This is a wild goose chase.”

Dean slumped back in his chair, deflating. 

“But-” His brain felt foggy. He knew he should have a counter argument.

“Dean.” Bobby cut in softly. “I know you miss Sam. You just gotta wait. You know how time here is.” 

He sighed. “It’ll get better. I was antsy when I first got here, too.” 

He stood up from his seat. “I’m gonna go say hi to Ellen. You take your time.” He slapped the hunter on the shoulder fondly. “Pick up fencing. I’m tellin’ you, it’s pretty fun.” He moved towards the door. 

“It gets better, Dean. I promise.”

Dean sat at the table for what felt like hours. Not moving was easy here. 

Bobby must be right. It made sense.

What mystery was there to solve here? The verse was vague enough already. There was nothing for him to fight, no battles to be won, no stalking of nightmarish beings or feats of heroism. There was nothing here he could conquer by beating the shit out of it. There was just Heaven trying to adapt for his brokenness. 

He sighed. 

They’d be waiting for him at the Roadhouse. 

No sense throwing off everyone else’s day because eternal peace wasn't good ‘nuff for him.

________

The drive to the roadhouse was quiet. Dean didn't put on any music. He was a little afraid of what would play.

The Roadhouse looked the same as it had years ago. He knew it was cheesy but just seeing the building still almost brought him to tears. The burnt husk it had become didn't linger in the air here. Here, the Roadhouse stood as if it had been there for centuries, unmoving and solid.

He pulled baby into a parking space right by the entrance, and gave himself a moment before walking in. 

The Roadhouse was emptier than he expected. Ellen was behind the bar and gave a friendly wave as he walked in. Dean stretched his face into a smile, like he’d done hundreds of times before. It was dark in here, too. 

Dean dully wondered if Ash had overloaded the power again.

“Ay! Winchester!” 

Jo waved him over. Dean grinned. He’d seen her a few times since he’d came back, but seeing her never failed to make him a little giddy. Not the kind of giddiness a teenager gets when they see their crush or anything. He didn't think of her romantically, not anymore. Maybe once, years ago. Back when he was 20 years younger and had seen seven fewer apocalypses. 

But seeing her alive gave him this sense of peace. She was okay. It was all okay.

“Harvelle!” 

He crossed the room quickly and scooped her up in a spinning hug. She giggled happily as he set her down.   
  
“And to think I thought we were past such extroverted greetings,” she teased with a smile.

“Now that heaven fixed up the knee pain I got no excuses.” He retorted.

She rolled her eyes. “Knee pain. You sound so old!” She started walking towards a table in the back, where Bobby already sat with a pint of something amber.

Dean scoffed. “I was old.”

“Forty-one is _not_ old.”

The friendly tone dropped from Dean’s voice in an instant as he caught Jo’s eyes. “Neither is-”

“Dean!” The hunter found himself cut off by the booming voice of his father, who had just entered the bar. The doors swung wildly behind him.

Dean cleared his throat, looking away from the blonde. “Hey- Hey Dad.” 

John Winchester strided over to the two of them, hand finding Dean’s shoulder almost immediately. “You know,” John said confidently, “Ellen and I always thought you two would be a cute couple.”

Jo giggled. It was unlike her. 

Dean pulled back slightly. “No- no Ellen didn't want that.” He tried to interject. “She- she hated you for something, didn't she?” His brain felt foggy again. He was trying to remember what it was that John had done so wrong.

John’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Hah! You're funny. Full of jokes today.” 

Dean tried to open his mouth to speak when suddenly Mary was by his side. He hadn't even seen her enter the bar. It was unlike him, he thought dully. Usually he scanned every space so carefully, kept a log of ins and outs even when he didn't mean to. She smiled.

“Your father and Ellen have always been close. It’s the Harvelles. Family friends.” Her smile was saccharine. 

“I just, I thought-” He looked at Jo for help, but she just looked at him blankly. “Nevermind. It’s not important. Let’s get drinks.”

“Fuckin’ finally!” Ellen shouted dramatically from the bar. “Honestly, I was starting to wonder if y’all were being a bunch of freeloaders.”  
  


Bobby chuckled. ‘Ellen, it’s Heaven. None of us are paying.”

Ellen swatted him with a rag. “That.” She said sharply. “Is besides the point.”

Everyone laughed. Dean still felt stuck in the previous conversation. His brain was trying to catch up. A beer was pushed into his hand by Jo.

“Come on,” she said with a smile, her eyes looking directly and unseeingly into his. “There's so much to talk about.”

Dean followed.

______________

`Four and a half drinks later, everyone was laughing.

“And then-” Bobby wheezed, barely getting the words out through the hysterics, “I realized I’d forgotten the salt!”

John guffawed with laughter. Someone knocked over a beer but it evaporated instantly, some sort of heavenly housekeeping service hard at work.

Jo was leaning into Dean, her arm around his shoulders. He didn't move her. “You’ve been holding out on us, Bobby!” She half-shouted with a grin. “We’ve been up here what? 10 years? And you’d never told that one.”

Bobby smiled. “What can I say? I like my surprises.”

John took a steadying breath followed by a steadying drink of beer, trying hard to stop chuckling.

Everyone seemed so, well, _happy._ It was a strange sight, everyone he’d lost gathered around a warmly lit table, happily drunk and laughing. Well. _Almost everyone._

His gut twisted a little as he thought about who wasn't there. 

John turned to face him. “Dean!” He said, red faced, “Your turn. Funny story from Earth.”

“Oh uh, let’s see.” He strained to remember. His brain still felt fragmented, his thoughts not quite connecting.

“I had a friend, a uh, an angel.” 

He caught John's eyes. “You never met him. He showed up a little bit after you, uh. Passed.” He nodded in Mary’s direction. “Mom’ll remember him. Anyways one morning he showed up on my car,” he readied for his dad to correct him and hurried his words “Uh, on baby, completely naked and covered in bees.”

He scrunched his eyebrows together. “I cant- I can't remember why he was there, though?” 

Jo blew air loudly. “Boring. Next!” 

Dean settled back into his seat, trying to dig through his head again. He took a swig of beer while Ellen told a long story involving a rattlesnake and a wendigo. 

The world started to come back into focus while John cleared his throat and started talking. “Ooh, this is one of my favorites. Alright, so we’ve pulled up in Duluth and we’re hearing about some mysterious deaths. Multiple suicides, missing brains, self-help hotlines going cold. You know the type.”

Bobby grinned. “Banshee.”

“Bingo! So we go out there to check it out, Sam Dean and I, and Sammy’s lil. He was what- seven?”

Dean knew this story. “Four. He was four.”

John waved him off. “Right. Anyways, I’m pokin’ around and I realize I’m gonna need two pairs of eyes for this job and none of my contacts were that far north. So I figure Dean here, he’d just turned what? 12?”

Dean interjected again. “I was 10.” 

“See? Practically 12. So I ask Dean to go wait out in that barn so that the banshee ‘ill spot him and take the bait. And it’s fuckin’ cold outsude so we’re waiting and waiting and my hands are getting all numb and that’s been the bitch shows up.”

Dean felt cold. There was something icy in his stomach now. He sat ram-rod straight, Jo shifted off of him. 

“And she shows up, she sees Dean, she opens her mouth to scream, and I’m about to take the fucking shot when my hands just. Freeze up. It was too damn cold and I couldn't pull the trigger.”

Everyone laughed. 

“It was ridiculous! And she's gettin’ closer and closer to lil Dean and she’s gotten him pinned on his hay bale and her eyes are glowin’ she's getting ready for all her lobotomy shit and he looks like he’s ready to piss himself and finally! I take the shot. It’s a perfect hit.”

Everyones laughing. Dean’s not sure why.

“You hit me.” Dean interjected. “It was not a perfect shot. It grazed my neck, I still have the scar.” 

John took a drink. ‘See? Makes it all the more memorable.”

Dean bit his tongue. He still wasn't used to the lack of physical pain from doing things. He used to rely on that to stop himself from having an outburst- he’d bite his lip until it bled or dig his nails into his palm until they left little crescent shapes. 

“Dad that was a fucked up story. You get that right?” 

The laughter stopped. John took a swig and looked at Dean. “You know what?” He said slowly. “You’re right.”

Dean sat there, shell shocked. 

“You’re right. It’s not a funny story. I almost got you killed.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Do you remember what you said to me?”

John took another silent drink. 

“You told me that you almost let the banshee get me because I was getting too expensive to keep around. That’s what you fucking said to me. You never told me your fingers froze up.” He chuckled dryly. “Actually, I was wrong. That story is funny. It’s fucking hysterical. I spent 30 goddamn years thinking you wanted me dead because buying me cheerios was too much of a financial burden. The reality? Your fingers were cold.”

He threw his head back, a shot of whiskey already appearing in his hand. It tasted like what Cas smelled like.

“What a fucking concept.” He placed the glass coldy on the table. “All of you are being ridiculous tonight. Walking on fucking eggshells.” He pointed at Ellen. “You _hate_ Dad. With a passion. Why are you pretending you don’t, hm? He got the love of your life killed.” Dean gestured around the bar. “Where is dear old Bill anyways?”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “You had cold fingers. Jesus Christ, Dad.” 

John opened his mouth slowly. “I’m sorry.” He shifted in his seat. “I’m out of excuses. I’m just sorry.”

Everyone sat there in silence for a moment. 

“I know I was a shit father to you, for a long ass time. I told myself I was doing the best I could, given the circumstances. Maybe in the beginning that was true. It stopped being true after a while.”

Dean didn't know what exactly he was feeling. He didn't like it. 

“I really am proud of how you turned out, Dean. You’re a good man.”

Dean scoffed. “Oh but you can’t fucking say it.” His voice was cold and harsh. The last time he spoke like this, well, he regretted it beyond measure. _You’re dead to me._ But not this time.

“Say what?” John asked slowly.

“All of you know it. You’ve been treading around it so fucking catiously, like its a minefield or eggshells or whatever the fuck. Every single one of you knows it. I can see it when you look at me.”

He looked around the table aggressively. Mary seemed to be vanishing into the wall. Jo looked ashamed. Mom was being so quiet it was wrong, everything about this was _wrong_ and he felt like he was suffocating.

“Dad, you brought it up at our truly lovely family get together the other day. Say it.” His voice was loaded with venom. It felt good.

“I- I don’t” John was stuttering. Dean had never seen him like this. 

“ _Ask me how I died.”_ Dean hissed. “Do it. You already know the answer.”

John looked at the floor. “How’d” his voice was just above a whisper. “How did you die, Dean?”

Dean squatted down low to look his father in the eyes. “I fucking killed myself, Dad.”

Mary interjected. “That’s not exactly true, it’s more-”

Dean shook his head. “It’s not more complicated than that. It’s not. I saw my shot and I fucking took it. As soon as that rebar hit I decided I was done. No ambulance, no angels, no cheats, nothing. I wanted out”

Mary looked close to tears. “Dean, baby, that’s not it. You died on a hunt. Accidents happen.”

Dean hadn't realised how far away from him everyone had moved, their chairs crowded together tightly. “I’ve survived worse. You know that. Every single one of you has. I just-” He paused. “I couldn't do it anymore. So you’re right dad, I got my hero’s death. Went out in the heat of fucking battle, huh?”

He spread his arms. “You know what you told me when I was thirteen dad? You told me there were only two ways to get to hell faster than selling a soul. Remember what they were?” 

He didn't wait for John to answer. His voice was too loud and he knew it. “Commiting suicide and bein’ a queer. And you know what, Dad? I did both and I’m still here, stuck in this fucking place, right here next to you.”

He felt like he’d turned into a dying supernova or something, like a cup knocked over and spilling and spilling and spilling until there was nothing left. 

“I- You have no idea what you did to me, Dad.” 

His brain felt fuzzy again, all of a sudden, like his thoughts were wrapped in mist. His chest was heaving and he still had things to say but he couldn't remember what. 

John stood up. “Dean,” he said softly. “I’m proud of you. I love you. You did everything right.” 

Dean remembered a moment just like this, he was trying to summon the details. There was a gun and yellow eyes and-

_____________

Dean was in the impala again. He didn't remember leaving Harvelle’s. He didn't remember finishing his conversation with his dad. He was just _here,_ in the front seat, the bridge to immigrant song playing softly.

His chest heaved as he remembered what he’d said, what he’d confessed too. He pulled over as his stomach twisted. 

He tried to focus on his breathing, like Cas said too when he felt like this. _Fuck_ , what had he done? He punched the dashboard and his knuckles felt nothing. 

“FUCK!” he screamed into the air. “FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

He took a moment, trying the breathing again. Like Castiel would want him to do. _Inhale_ and 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 _and exhale 7, 8, 9, 10._

He closed his eyes, tipping his head back.

“Cas,” he whispered, “I really fucked up this time.” He sighed. 

“I. Well you know I get upset sometimes. And since you,” he paused. He still hated saying it. “Since the empty took you, I’ve tried really hard to keep my anger in check. I should’ve done it while you were here but I’m trying now.” 

He sighed into the empty sky. The sun shined bronze on his face. 

“But I snapped today, at the roadhouse. Dad was telling some story about the first time he took me hunting as a kid, and I just, I couldn't hear it.”

“I told them about how I died. I guess you know already but. Sam and I got into this barn, right? This barn in ohio? And there's these kids and we gotta save ‘em and the barn looks just like the one we met in. Remember? With the shitty gray wooden walls and the ceiling beams?” 

He deepened his voice. “I _’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition._ ” He chucked. “Classic.”

“Anyways. It was just like that. And we’re fightin’ these vamps and they’ve got clown masks for some godforsaken reason and it’s going just fine. We’ve done this dozens of times. You know how it goes.”

He looked up at the ceiling of the Impala, eyes beginning to water. “And one of the posts had this fucking rebar, sticking right out of it. I clocked it when we first got in. It’s what we do. But I’m fighting this vamp fucker and he keeps orienting me with my back _just_ facing it and I knew it was there and-” His voice caught. “I didn't make the change. I don’t know why.” 

“Fuck that, I do know why. I didn't want to be around anymore, Cas. It’s not like I exactly wanted to be dead or anything, but. I just. I didn't see a point anymore.” 

He wiped his nose. “I still don't, honestly. This eternal life thing is starting to feel a bit like bullshit. But. I made that choice. And I know Bobby said the case thing was bullshit but. I don't know. For a moment I was real excited. Scared too, but. I just wanted to do something.”

He bit his lip. “I think I liked thinking that there was some reason everything felt wrong. Some conspiracy. Instead it’s just me, I guess.”

He took a steadying breath. “And everyone knows. Everyone knows how I went out, everyone knows that I don’t fucking fit here. And I was just so sick of nobody addressing it. Of Bobby looking at me like I was some little kid to be pitied. They couldn't even say the _word._ So I confronted them.”

He slammed his hand into the steering wheel again. “And I can’t. Fucking remember.” He groaned. “I know I said I was a qu-.” He took a breath. “I know what I said but right after, I thought of something and I can’t get it. It’s like there's something blocking my brain from putting a goddamn thought together.”

His throat was thick. He knew he should stop talking before he said something he’d regret. He’d done enough of that tonight.

He shook his head. “Cas, I just. I miss you. I’m sorry. I’m really really fucking sorry.” 

He sighed. “I’m wasting your time. I know I am. You’ve got universes to rebuild or whatever. I just. I really need you, man. I’m not right when you aren't around.”

He sighed. “Anyways. Over n’ out, I guess. Amen.”

He wiped his eyes and started up baby again. He could go back home, he thought dully. Learn some ASL for when Eileen gets here. It would be a nice surprise. 

He pressed on the accelerator, and instantly the music started.

_What a waste to say the heart could feel apart_

It was the same song as earlier, the same one from the morning.

_Or feel complete, Baby_

Dean kept driving as the song played. It felt right. His brain was already turning.

_Why would you make out of words a cage for your own bird?_

Maybe he was making it up but his head already felt clearer. 

_When it sings so sweet_

_The screaming, heaving, fuckery of the world?_

_Why would you offer a name to the same old tired pain?_

_When all things come from nothing, and honey if nothing’s gained_

_My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand_

_It’s how I know now that you understand_

_There's no plan_

_There's no race to the sun_

The song skipped again. Dean waited for it to go back to the beginning of the verse.

Instead, the same line played again and again and again.

_There’s no plan, there’s no plan there- there- there-’s no plan_

The man was singing disjointedly. Dean’s heart was beginning to beat quicker.

Maybe Bobby was right. Maybe he was making it all up. He had just said, outloud, that he wished the case was real and his to pursue. Maybe all of this really was emerging from his imagination. 

The song stopped as he came to a bridge. It was beautiful. Dean stopped. He knew he should.

He stepped out of baby and walked to the railing, looking out at the vast expanse of trees. A river trickled under his feet. 

The song switched to a Kanas classic. Dean resisted the urge to comment on it. 

His head felt clear for the first time in days. Something was racing through his head at a million miles a minute.

Something shifted behind him. Dean felt it instantly.

He smiled. “Heya Sammy.”

He turned.

There was someone standing there. He looked identical to Sam in every way one should. He was even wearing the exact outfit he’d worn when Dean picked him up from Stanford all those years ago. Part of Dean wanted to run and hug him. He’d missed Sam, so fucking much, but that, that _thing_ wasnt Sam. 

He couldn't place his finger on how exactly he knew. 

There were very few faces he knew as well as Sam’s. He’d seen him scared and hungry and tired. He’d seen him happy and resentful and judgmental. He’d seen him wrecked with grief and incredibly euphoric.

But this face? This wasn't Sammy. It looked like someone was wearing a Sam-suit, trying to replicate his movements and stand like he would. 

“Dean.” Not-Sam said.

Dean grinned and shook his head. “You almost fucking had me.”

Not-Sam’s forehead crinkled. “What?”

The Kansas song stopped.

Dean was laughing now. He turned his back on the Not-Sam. “You were really fucking close. But you guys always make the same mistake.”

“What’s that?” The voice wasn't Sam’s anymore. 

Dean turned around to face the Not-Sam. “You always forget that John Winchester is a Grade A Asshat.” 

Not-Sam scowled and sucked through his teeth. “I thought I went too forcefully on the heavenly reinvention thing. Honestly, I really debated it.”

Dean tried to casually slip his hands into his jacket pockets while leaning against the railing.

Not-Sam tutted at him. “Mmm-mm. Hands where I can see ‘em. Come on Dean, I’m not that easy to fool.”

Dean was starting to recognize the tone of his voice. 

Not-Sam kept talking. “Honestly. I was worried this was too ambitious but come on, I had to try.” His face slipped into a sickly grin. His eyes burned white for half a moment, and Dean watched as his skin stretched and folded and melded into a new shape.

As the figure changed, Dean quickly slipped his hand into his pocket and whipped out the paring knife from that morning. He slipped it up his sleeve.

Chuck was now standing where Not-Sam had stood, adjusting his jaw. ‘Ugh. Shifting. What a process.” He shook out his arms. “Always makes me a little uncomfy.”

He cracked his knuckles. “Come on? No shocked reaction? No witty banter?” 

Dean stood silently.

“Come on!” Chuck laughed. “You really thought you beat me? In a fist fight? Against God?” 

He snorted. Dean did not.

“Hey, it’s a little funny. Everyone was _so_ excited. Free will this and free will that.” He smirked. “You ran out of free will pretty quickly, huh? Considering you spent 15 years getting it and all.” Chuck tutted at him again. “Spent it all on some rebar. How _pathetic_.”

Dean found his words. “Where’s Jack?” He demanded.

“Oh. Him.” Chuck yawned again, glowed a pale white, and within moments Jack stood there instead. Jack looked like Jack, not like how Not-Sam was a replica of Sam. Dean wanted to run to him but he knew it was Chuck there instead.

“I think, technically, I’m called a _parasite_ .” Chuck stage-whispered at Dean with Jack’s mouth. “It was exhausting, but I think you’ll find I’m running things again.” He glowed again for a moment and turned back into Chuck. “Ugh. All these forms, so _irritating.”_

The Impala’s radio started up again. The Night We Met by Lord Huron started drifting out across the bridge.

_I am not the only traveler-_

Chuck spun around in fury. “That fucking ANGEL!” He threw an arm out in front of him, and the entire Impala vanished into thin air. 

Chuck laughed, hysteria dripping into his voice. “You know,” he said, “You’ve always been so easy to predict. It’s always Dean and his daddy issues ready to sacrifice himself for the world.” His voice slipped mockingly. “But that angel! You wouldn't have jackshit without Castiel and you can trust me on that one. I can never predict his bullshit.”

He spat on the ground. “That’s what I get for building this place so close to the empty.” He shook his head. “Who would've known there was so little real estate left for new dimensions? Honestly. Pricing these days. It’s ridiculous.”

“Where is he?” Dean interrupted angrily. “Where’s Cas?”

“Cas. Oh.” Chuck scrunched up his face. “Well, I could lie. But honestly at this point?” He made a pouty face. “I’m so sick of lying. Parents always tell their kids “don’t lie, it’s wrong,” but what they should really warn them about is how _exhausting_ it is to keep them doing.”

Dean stood quietly, fingers tightening around the hidden blade, brain itching for a plan, a thought, anything.

“Well, he’s _supposed_ to be in the empty, but after Jack’s little temper tantrum the empty has been a bit, well, weakened. There's some cracks in the walls. And she won't cooperate with me.” He slammed a foot against the floor angrily, like a child throwing a fit. 

“Honestly. You’d think you’d want to make friends with the most powerful celestial being in existence, but _some people_ just lack the social awareness.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat. Cas could be out of the empty he could be alive he-

Behind him, below the bridge, another radio seemed to have been summoned. 

_Who has not repaid his debt_

Chuck scowled. “See? That feathered piece of shit is a real pain in my-”

_I’ve been searching for a trail to follow again_

Chuck snapped his fingers. The music stopped.

He rolled his neck. “Anyways. Back to my point. Dean. This is the moment in the story where you stand here, shell shocked, devastated by your discoveries. It’s the plot twist, the climax, and you know what?”

Chuck was in front of Dean in under a second, his face right in front of his. He smiled. “We get to do it all again.” His breath was hot on his face.

Dean felt his brain get foggy again. “No,” he mumbled. “NO.” He said it fiercely this time, confidently. The fogginess was weakening. 

Chuck smiled. “Yes, Dean. That’s how this works. I snap my fingers and you’ll forget it all. It’s a heavenly re-do.” He smirked. “Well. Heaven-adjacent.”

Dean felt like his entire body was being consumed in a wall of mist. “Give in,” Chuck whispered. “Don’t you want it all to be over? Again? No angst, no pain.”

Chuck glowed white. He wore Cas’s face. His eyes were so blue. 

“Maybe next time, I’ll have a fake Cas running around too. You can see him. Hmm? Wouldn't that be nice?”

Dean tried to gasp for air, searching for reality to cling to, when suddenly-

_TAKE ME BACK TO THE NIGHT WE MET_

Louder than Dean ever thought, louder than anyone should ever be blasting any Lord Huon song, the music cut through the air. The fogg was gone, Not-Cas had backed up, Dean’s head was clear.

“fUCKING HELL! WE ARE HAVING A MOMENT HERE!” Chuck screamed it into the air.

He snapped, and the song stopped again.

Dean’s head was spinning.

Cas was sending these songs. These were from Cas.

The night we met, what happened the night they met?

The sigil. The summoning. The ritual then had been much more complicated, but if what Chuck said was true and he was empty-adjacent, well. 

Dean grinned as he remembered it, and victoriously, he slipped the paring knife into his hand and dug it into his palm.

Nothing happened. 

Not-Cas looked at him sympathetically. 

“ _Oh_. Dean. You didn't think that would work, did you?”

Dean tilted his head. He had a choice to make. He grinned, and spun the knife between his fingers. He launched himself at Chuck at full speed, bodychucking Not-Cas to the ground. He slipped him into a quick arm lock as he hit the ground, and dug the blade into Not-Cas’s hand.

Chuck screamed with pain, glowing white as he reverted back to Jack’s form.

Dean dragged his bloody fingers across the cement quickly, trying to draw the sigil as quickly as possible. He knew the sigil like it was a part of him, etched to his bones. 

Dean slammed his palm into the sigil, hands and shirt stained red. “CASTIEL!” He screamed it, voice almost giving out from the desperate shriek.

The sigil glowed blue, and Dean was thrown backwards across the bridge. He slammed into the railing.

Chuck-Not-Jack had used the airtime to catch himself. His eyes glowed.

Suddenly, he could feel pain again. It was everywhere, in his ribs and his eyes and his head and his legs. He could feel his nose bleeding. It was all-consuming, this pain, lining every orifice of his body. He considered screaming. He didn't think his lungs could take it.

He was _burning_ , somehow. He thought he knew what that felt like, that 40 years in hell prepared him for every type of heat but this was different. 

It hit him like a wall, and then it was gone. The entire world was filled with static. Dean hit the floor, hands over his ears out of pure instinct. 

He opened his eyes slowly, and almost let out a sob at the sight.

Castiel was hovering feet over the ground, wings iridescent and expanded at full length, glowing with silent power. He was facing Chuck-Not-Jack.

“ _Get._ ” He growled, voice low and menacing. _“Out of my son.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to end on a cliffhanger but I need something to make y'all come back for more okay


End file.
